He looks fine, though—he’s even smiling. Maybe he just needs a second to recover from that mind-blowing kiss.
“Sure. It’s?—”
“I remember. Thank you.” He slips out, and I take advantage of the moment alone to finish feeding Vivi, wash my hands in the sink, and give myself a pep talk.
He knows now that I want him. It’s not like anyone could have mistaken that for a “friendly” kiss. He didn’t shut me down; hell, he participated enthusiastically. That’s a good sign, right? Like maybe he considers this a date too?
I grab a bottle of wine a client gave me. It’s expensive, and I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. What could be more special than this? When Phil comes back, I’ll make sure he knows what I’m hoping for… and maybe tomorrow, I’ll be disclosing our brand-new relationship to Damian.
An awkward conversation with my boss about my personal life? A guy can only hope.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PHIL
I stareat myself in the bathroom mirror and wonder how long it will take for the goofy smile to go away. Forever, probably.
It’s hard to care.
Unable to resist, I text the group chat.
He kissed me.
It takes only seconds for the first reply, a keyboard smash of question and exclamation marks from Blaise, but the others follow quickly. I keep the app open just long enough for it to register that I’ve read all their demanding questions, and then I close it and put my phone on Silent. Leaving them on Read after a statement like that is the petty kind of torture my friends and I adore inflicting on each other. Calla knows what my plans for the evening are, so she’ll probably fill them all in on that, but they’re still going to be desperate for details. I can’t wait to share them.
But even more, I can’t wait to get back out there and kiss Griff some more. And talk to him. Maybe some cuddles. I just need a few seconds first to settle the batshit crazy butterflies that have taken over my whole body. This is a good kind of anxiety, the kind that happens when you’re so happy or excitedabout something that you think nothing bad can ever happen again, but as today proved, my body isn’t always that great at differentiating between the different types of adrenaline dumps. I really, really want to be able to talk to Griff tonight.
My smile gets wider. I want to talk to him—fuck, I want to stay up all night talking and kissing—but I’m absolutely, completely, one hundred percent sure that if I became nonverbal right now, Griff would understand. I don’t know why I’m so certain, given this is only the third time we’ve met in person, but I am. I can trust Griff.
So why am I still standing here?
I splash cold water on my face, because I’m still all kinds of flushed from that kiss, and tomato red isn’t the best color for me. Plus, Ilikehow my freckles look, and they’re not really visible when I blush.
Finally ready, I head back to the kitchen. Griff looks up from the stove as I enter, his gaze searching and his smile tentative. Aww, is he worried about me?
“That already smells good,” I say, smiling back. I cross to stand beside him and slip an arm around his waist as I lean into him. A rice steamer and a wok with vegetables in it are on the stove, and beside it is a plate with cubes of… “Is that tofu? Do you buy it marinated or do that yourself?”
His body, which tensed when I touched him, relaxes, and he puts his free arm around me while he stir-fries the vegetables with the other. “I usually buy it marinated,” he admits. “Sometimes I’ll get plain if there’s a flavor I want to try that isn’t available to buy, but for weeknight cooking, I usually don’t think ahead enough to take the time to marinate stuff.”
“No judgment here,” I assure him. “I’m just grateful someone else is cooking. Worknight dinners don’t exactly equal a fun time to experiment with recipes.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
We’re quiet for a minute, the only sounds coming from our sizzling dinner and Vivi chowing down. I rest a little more of my weight against Griff’s rock-solid body. He’s not exactly what I would think of if someone asked me to describe “cuddly,” but somehow, I get the feeling that he can be. That snuggling on the couch on a cold night is just the kind of thing I can look forward to if this goes where I want it to. And he’s warm, and steady?—
“So,” he says, breaking into my thoughts. “I guess it’s okay that I kissed you.”
It’s not a question, and yet I know he needs me to answer. It seems that this big, intimidating, grunt-fluent man isn’t just a brilliant fashion stylist—he’s also a consent king. Talk about sexy.
“Better than okay,” I confirm, then tense as a horrible thought occurs. “Uh… I don’t want to seem needy, but was it… I mean, did you just want that one kiss? Or…” My cheeks are getting hot again, and I start to straighten. Have I been presumptuous?
He gives me a little one-armed squeeze, keeping me close to him.
“I want all the kisses,” he says quietly. “Plus whatever else you want to give me, even if that’s just your time.” He winces. “Sorry, that’s probably too intense. What I mean is, I’d like to date you.”
For a heart-stopping second, words freeze in my throat, but it’s not mutism—just a regular old emotional hiccup. “Yeah,” I manage. “That sounds good.”That sounds good?Oh my god, I’m a disaster. “I want to date you too,” I add, and then, since I left any semblance of cool behind ages ago, I throw in, “It wasn’t too intense. I want your kisses and time too. And cuddling on the couch watching TV, and afternoons in the park with Vivi. Dinners with my friends. And… nights. Long nights with just us.”
His breathing catches, and he puts down his spatula and half turns, looking at me. His expression is… wonderful. Soft but heated, and even though we’re just standing in the kitchen, looking at each other, my dick stirs with interest.
